


Gods and Supervillains

by 8611



Series: Gods and Supervillains [1]
Category: James Bond (Craig movies), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Crack, M/M, Original Character(s), Video & Computer Games
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-04
Updated: 2012-12-04
Packaged: 2017-11-20 06:53:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,104
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/582528
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/8611/pseuds/8611
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dear SIS personnel,</p><p>Kindly stop sitting on my sofa and playing video games with my flatmate, because it is making my life disturbing. I cannot handle it.</p><p>No love,<br/>Your friendly neighborhood Quartermaster</p><p> </p><p>(or, the one where there's Christmas shopping, petsitting a cat who's a Threat To National Security, and Eve wiping the floor with everyone at every video game ever.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gods and Supervillains

**Author's Note:**

> I cannot even begin to tell you how much crack there is in the following fic. This was written purely for self indulgent fun, which I suppose is probably a welcome break from my usual MO, haha. 
> 
> Yes, the cat is in fact named after a le Carré character.

Q knows it’s going to be a shit Monday when he finds that someone has taken the last choc ice and left the empty box in the freezer. 

(Someone here meaning Adam, his flatmate.)

It’s not as if he should be awake at 3 in the morning and poking around for various sweet things, but he’s awake and there’s only so much tea he can put in his body in a day, so, choc ices. 

He spills kettle water on his hand when he wakes up the second time, discovers they’ve only got green tea left, leaves his Oyster at home, and trips up the stairs going into the office. Luckily the only people around to see that are some random plebs from Accounts who Q will probably never see again, and his travel mug at least survives the trip to be sulkily sipped from in the lift. 

He only makes it down one floor to the normal (actually in the official building plans) basement before the lift stops and Eve of all people gets on, laden down with no small amount of paperwork. She takes one look at him, slumped against the back wall and wearing Chucks because fuck it, it’s a Horrible Monday and no one important is ever in his department anyway, and cracks a smile.

“You’re either hung over or had a terrible weekend,” Eve says with a disturbing amount of glee. 

“The two don’t need to be mutually exclusive,” Q points out. “My morning has been less then pleasant.”

“Ah,” Eve says. “Then I suppose I shouldn’t point out that this stack of papers is for your department.”

“Of course it is,” Q says, sighing. “This day is going to get worse and worse until I end up at some stupid pub drinking my face off with Adam whilst he yells at football.”

“Going to get something drunkenly pierced again?”

“I deeply regret ever telling you that story.”

Eve’s ‘innocent’ smile has always looked slightly evil to Q. 

\---

It is three days to Christmas and they’re on Oxford Street. Q has already run over several people’s feet, been hit in the hip by a handbag that probably contained rocks, and is going blind from all the fairy lights. 

Also, Boots appears to be gleefully shooting fake snow made of bubbles from the roof of their shop, which is just wrong. 

“This is the actual worst idea,” Q says, and Eve just pats him on the arm. On her other side Adam is frantically texting someone, who Q assumes is probably Emily, his latest girlfriend.

“I’m inclined to agree,” Adam says, finally looking up from his mobile when he nearly walks right over a small child. 

“You said your mother wanted a bag she’d seen at Selfridges,” Eve points out. “I’m only here as back up.”

“What is it you do again?” Adam asks. 

“Administrative work,” Eve says, and her tone is honey, which Adam no doubt reads somewhat differently than Q.

(Adam probably thinks she’s being coy. Q knows in reality she’s daring him to even think that she could not level this road in three seconds or less if M wouldn’t throw a shit fit over the collateral.)

Q is left alone when they get there, and ends up facing a horde of middle aged housewives and long suffering husbands in the accessories department, clutching a Paul Smith bag like his life depends on it. Never let it be said that Q does not love his mother very, very much. 

He finds Eve and Adam in the basement in the electronics department, where they’re playing Hitman on one of the flat screens. Eve is doing much better by a considerable margin. 

“Don’t even try Adam,” Q says. “She’ll eat you alive.”

“Brothers?” Adam asks, sneaking a look at Eve.

“Something like that,” Eve says, and, on screen, knifes Adam’s character in the stomach. 

\---

Q and Eve go back to work and Adam tells them they work too much, so he’s going home to take a nap. Q makes him take their shopping back to the flat, and enjoys the knowledge that somewhere Adam is sitting on the bus with a number of loud yellow bags that practically cry “hello London, I’m a rich bastard!” 

Bond finds them in the R&D workshop, totting more broken gadgets. Q holds out his hands for a PPK with the grip missing and a motherboard that seems to have been set on fire at some point. 

“You look more exhausted that usual,” Bond says. Q gives him a heavy dose of side-eye as he prods at the motherboard. 

“Oxford Street,” Eve says from where she’s perched on the end of Q’s worktable, playing Angry Birds on a tablet designed for international espionage. 

“Oh god, why? No one goes there,” Bond says. “I don’t even go there.”

“That’s because you’d shoot the place up and cause an Incident,” Q says, and pulls out a pocket-sized torch to shine light into crevices of burnt plastic and metal. “Bond, you are aware that this is _completely useless_? Because it’s been set on fire?”

“I did have an idea, yes,” Bond says. “But that’s what you sent me out with.”

“This is all that’s left of the computer we gave you?” Q asks, mouth hanging open a bit. “Bond, that was five thousand pounds worth of state of the art technology!”

“He tried,” Eve says.

“No, no, there was no trying, except that he is trying to bankrupt my department,” Q says. “You know what, everyone leave, I have to go cry in a corner somewhere and say a prayer for the computer that _you killed_.”

“I think the holidays are getting to you,” Eve says. 

“Bit high on the drama,” Bond agrees. 

Q thinks about throwing things at them, but the problem is that they’d just catch anything with their stupid cat reflexes and completely remove the joy in throwing things at people’s heads. 

\---

Q has to go out and get milk on Boxing Day and when he comes home he finds that Eve has appeared and is now sitting on his sofa, playing XBox with Adam (or, rather, what was once an XBox before Q got his hands on it). This time it looks to be the new Fifa game, and, once again, Eve is wiping the floor with Adam. It’s impressive, really, Q’s never seen Adam lose this badly to anyone. 

“Why are you here?” Q asks. “Also, tea?”

“Adam invited me over,” Eve says. “And yes please.”

“Me as well!” Adam calls as Q disappears into the kitchen to put on the kettle. He rummages around in the cabinets for suitable tea for a moment before something horrible occurs to him and he sticks his head around the corner.

“You didn’t invite Bond over, did you?” He asks, and Eve looks up at him, an eyebrow raised. On screen, despite the fact that she’s looking away, Eve’s team scores a goal. Adam groans and lets his head loll on the back of the couch. 

“Of course not,” Eve says. “He’s in Monaco with whatsherface.” 

“Anna from Legal.” Q is not exactly sure how he knows this.

“Yes, Anna. Why does he even get to go to Monaco?” Eve’s eyes are back on the game. "Dosen't he have work?"

“Does everyone in your office make a stupid amount of money and take ridiculous holidays?” Adam asks as Q vanishes back into the kitchen when he hears the click of the kettle.

“He’s technically the same pay grade as me,” Q calls. “He’s just a bastard and gets the world’s largest bonus.” 

(Hazard/thanks for not shooting up Waterloo Station this year pay, actually, but Q can’t exactly tell Adam the ins and outs of what and how the 00s get paid.)

“I’m assuming he also doesn’t spend all his money on clothes,” Adam says, and Eve laughs. Q rolls his eyes before calling –

“He only spends less on clothing because he gets preferential treatment as he’s totally fucking Tom Ford.” 

Q is mildly afraid that Eve is going to die laughing on his living room floor, and then M will blame him for killing his assistant. 

\---

It turns out that Emily has to go to Hong Kong on short notice (Q will never understand how stockbrokers operate), and so her cat gets foisted off on Q and Adam for the foreseeable future. 

Blondie’s first act of defiance is to chew on Q’s cables. Her second act is to figure out how to spring Q door open so that she can continue chewing on said cables. 

“You are a threat to national security,” Q tells the cat as he places her outside his room and locks the door. She then spends the next half an hour scratching at the door. Q knows if he’s going to get any work done he’s going to have to go to Costa. 

(Q gets a sick glee out of working at Costa, knowing that everyone else is doing course work or charting third quarter growth or something, and meanwhile he’s tweezing data and secrets out of the SVR network.)

He wraps himself in layers and a scarf and gives the cat a glare as he opens the front door. She looks at him innocently, licking a paw. 

“I know your games,” Q tells the cat, pointing at her with his keys, and then slips off to sequester himself in an overstuffed sofa with a slightly overfilled mocha. 

He’s just finished booting up his encrypted network from his mobile when James Bond walks in the door with a redhead on his arm. 

He has never sent a text faster –

_SOS BOND IN COSTA WITH ANNA FROM LEGAL HOW TO PROCEDE_

and then,

_god, it’s like seeing a dog walk on its hind legs, this is so strange_

followed by,

_Eve, does this mean he takes the Tube or the bus? Because that will only end in him strangling a bus driver or something equally as terrible._

Eve, bless her, gets back to him with a certain degree of alacrity, which is good because Q is hiding behind his laptop. 

_omg take a photo. you have my permission to email it to the whole agency._

a second later,

_wait, not M tho, that might end badly._

Q is texting Eve back, assuming he’s being very sneaky, when someone puts two take-away cups down at the table, and Q looks up as Bond picks up the second mobile that’s running the network boot. 

“Are you actually running a network connection on your mobile from the Cloud?” Bond asks. “Because that seems like a very bad and unsecured idea.”

“The network is fully encrypted, please. I’m just routing it through the Cloud. I am not a total incompetent, thank you very much,” Q says as Anna from Legal comes up and rests a hand on Bond’s shoulder. “What are you even doing here?”

“Anna lives in the neighborhood,” Bond says. Anna from Legal smiles at him, a perfect smile with just enough teeth, and Q wonders if she is one of those strange people that SIS recruits who modeled in Russia or Tokyo or wherever. 

“We’ll let you get your work done,” Anna says, and picks up the cups. Bond raises an eyebrow at Q and tosses him his mobile. By some miracle, Q catches it, and Bond takes Anna’s arm, guiding her back past the tables and chairs towards the door. 

Right before they leave Q gets his photo, and then realizes that Bond’s disconnected him. 

“Oh, you tit-head,” Q says, and then spends seven minutes getting the network re-routed. He will not be defeated by a cat and James bloody Bond. 

\---

Because they’re insane like that, SIS has a New Years party. Sometimes Q wonders if HR likes to pretend that they’re a normal work place, when in reality a decent amount of the employees are constantly in danger of being shot, blown up, sold out, double crossed, maimed or poisoned. There are plenty of normal people in the building, certainly, such as Accounts and Legal and HR and, amazingly, Cryptology (they’re geekier than Q, and that’s saying something), because they can all just tell people what they actually do for a living. 

Then there are the field agents, the 00s, and of course, Q-branch. None of them can exactly walk around explaining that yes, they do work at the SIS, and here’s exactly what they do. Adam, who he has been friends with since they were eleven and lived with since uni, is operating under the impression that Q heads up the IT department of a very successful shipping and logistics company. Which, if you looked at it in a certain light and were very drunk, is sort of true. 

This is the reason that they’re packed to the gills in a stupidly posh pub within City limits. People are actually dancing. Q can’t even wrap his head around that one, but then again _normal people_. 

Instead he and a couple of his underlings had retreated to a balcony to overlook the unwashed masses where people were attempting to have normal conversations over the music and drinking things besides beer. The whole place is made to look like a study, and so Q and the underlings had sequestered themselves in a corner, surrounded by bookshelves. 

It’s only when the underlings have left to get drinks that Eve sweeps in, and, of course, Bond is on her arm. Bond looks stupidly at home in the high backed chair, perfectly done up in a perfect tux. Of course. 

“Who blackmailed you into coming to this?” Q asks, and he has to raise his voice over the music a bit. “I’d say that someone had pictures of you naked, but I can’t see that being particularly bothersome for you.”

“Many people have pictures of me naked,” Bond says, unconcerned, and takes a sip of what seems to be a gin and tonic made with a cucumber instead of a lime. 

“You know,” Eve says, “you look a bit like a supervillain up here, hiding away in your lair.”

“I’d need a cat for that,” Q says. “There’s actually an evil one living in my flat right now, I should have brought her.”

“You would have been an excellent evil genius in another life,” Eve says. “You’d have all the 00s as your henchmen, running around doing your nefarious bidding.”

“I fail to see how that makes sense,” Bond says, dryly. “Would you also be a villain in this unfair scenario?”

“Oh please,” Eve says. “I’d be a god, up on my mountain, laughing at all you peasants.” 

Somehow, Q can actually see this very clearly. Bond seems to be nodding in approval as well, although it’s dark and difficult to tell. 

“I still don’t understand why you’re here,” Q says. 

“Anna from Legal has ditched him, so I dragged him along,” Eve says. 

“Two questions: why do you two act like ‘from Legal’ is her surname, and why did you think we were an item or something equally as depressing?” Bond asks. 

“I don’t know, and what, was it just sex?” Eve asks. 

“Yes,” Bond says, without a hint of irony. 

“You know, I think you might be the only person on the planet whom I believe that from,” Q says. “Maybe because I’ve been in your ear for one too many of your liaisons.”

“I enjoy knowing that I can get half of Q-branch worked up without actually being present,” Bond says, and the smirk he’s wearing is completely insufferable. 

“We don’t enjoy your enjoyment,” Q says. “And we don’t get worked up.”

Eve turns to cough delicately, clearly stopping herself from saying something like _I know you all listen in when you could just kill the comms_ , although the cough doesn’t quite hide her laugh. Q attempts to kill her via glare. It fails spectacularly. 

“Fine, so you’re here to find some easy lay, probably someone stupidly curvy with a low-cut dress,” Q says. “Then be gone, I want to plot in peace.” 

“How have you not realized by now that his type is tall and willowy?” Eve asks, and Bond gives her a look that Q can’t quite place. “In fact, he should just go home with you.”

“Oh yes, Bond in my flat, that sounds like an amazing idea,” Q says, and he is impressed with the amount of sarcasm he forces into that once sentence. 

“Well now I’m just going to have to break in and show up unannounced,” Bond says, takes another drink, stares straight at Q. 

“The cat will eviscerate you,” Q says. “She’s a threat to national security.” 

Both Bond and Eve are looking at him like he’s slightly mad. He takes another drink and stares back out at the dance floor, but he can still feel Bond’s eyes on him. 

\---

Tall and willowy and Bond end up on the bus to North Finchely, necking like teenagers on the top deck, one of Q’s hands pressed to the cold glass, his skin prickling. Q’s brain is torn somewhere between _what in bloody fucking hell are you doing, you idiot?_ and _oh, oh – this is ok, this is really ok_. It is almost three in the morning and he is making a horrible, terrible decision, he knows, because he is about to be the next Anna from Legal, and his poor brain cannot handle being in a Costa with Bond ever again. 

They nearly miss Q’s stop, and then they only make it because Q is tugging Bond down the steps by his lapels. Q lurches when the bus does and nearly falls on his ass, but Bond catches him, grinning like the cat that got the canary, and Q just glares back.

“What, is walking down the steps of a moving bus without making an ass of yourself part of 00 training?” Q grouses as the door opens and he keeps dragging Bond, this time out into the cold night, their breath steam in the air for only a moment before Bond is back in his personal space, kissing him, searing his breath onto Q’s lips. 

“If you ever see someone make it down those steps perfectly they’re either an agent or a gymnast,” Bond says, and this confirms Q’s lifelong suspicion that it is almost physically impossible to make it down bus steps in one piece. 

Bond won’t leave his neck alone at the front door, and Q’s hands are shaking as he finally gets the lock open, and then Q just gives up, because Bond is getting clothes off of him at an amazing rate and somehow knows where Q’s bedroom is. 

(Small graces: neither the cat nor Adam are anywhere to be seen.)

As soon as Bond gets his shirt off Q falls back onto the bed, bringing Bond with him, and he’s scrabbling at Bond’s shoulders when Bond suddenly stills, mouth disturbingly close to one of his nipples. His right nipple, in fact. There is a huff of laughter, and Q’s eyes go wide with realization. 

“Oh no, don’t you fucking ask –“

“Q, is this a scar from a _nipple piercing_?” 

“I was drunk and I had it for less than 12 hours! Also, I am trying to have sex with you, you bloody ingrate.” Q sits up, nearly bashing their heads, and, in a display of agility he’ll probably never be able to replicate, he flips their positions so that he’s straddling Bond (he has a feeling that Bond allowed it to happen, or it never would have). Bond is grinning, and he leans back, crosses his hands behind his head. 

“Any other secret piercings?” Bond asks, and pulls up his thigh to press it between Q’s legs, making Q’s eyes flutter closed and his breathing jump. He manages to shake his head, and then Bond is up on his elbows to meet him, pressing a surprisingly tender kiss to the corner of Q’s mouth and carding a hand through his hair. Q opens his eyes again to find Bond staring at him, and for a moment he is neutral, and then the next thing Q is aware of Bond has flipped them again, Q’s wrists are in his grip, and Bond is smiling down at him. 

“You’re sure?” Bond asks. “No decorations?” Bond is idly running his free hand up Q's ribs. 

“Only the tattoo,” Q says, and Bond’s eyebrows go up, a bit of genuine surprise on his face. Q feels smug for a moment.

And then Bond does something horrible-amazing with his mouth and Q’s collarbone, and Q spends the next few hours getting fucked six ways to Tuesday into his mattress. 

\---

Q wakes up alone, wakes up to his covers and duvet scattered across the bed and floor, wakes up to sunlight streaming in through his open curtains, falling across the bed. 

He pushes himself up onto his elbows and rubs at his very scratchy, dry eyes for a moment before he realizes that he had fallen asleep with his contact lenses in. He is also aware that he feels like every muscle in his body has been put through a grinder and that there are bite marks scattered across his ribs and hips. Evidently James Bond is a not so secret vampire. He is going to circulate that in an anonymous memo, that’s what Bond gets for slinking out in the morning before Q can even make tea. 

Not that Bond slinking out in the morning is anything particularly special or surprising. He is not even the new Anna from Legal, there will not even be Costa. He should actually be thankful. Maybe they can ignore this all and go back to functioning as normal human beings who do not want to rip each others clothes off. 

Q groans, pulls himself into a sitting position at the edge of the bed, and finally finds the will to stand, running a hand through his hair and pulling a pair of loose tracksuit bottoms from his wardrobe. He feels like his limbs aren't responding at their normal speed. He locates his mobile (under a tux jacket that is certainly not his), sees way too many missed calls, texts and emails, and gives up, tossing it back on the bed.

Wait. Rewind. Bond’s tux jacket is still on his floor. Q stares at it for a moment, hand stilled in his hair, and then he realizes that Bond must be somewhere in his flat, and that it’s late enough that Adam must be up.

“Oh no,” Q says, and wrenches open the door, jogs down the hall, and finds James Bond on his sofa, Xbox controller in his hands and determined look on his face. Adam is on the end of the other controller, and Blondie is curled up on the back of the sofa, watching the screen, tail twitching. 

“Good morning, sleeping beauty,” Adam says. “Did you get attacked by Twilight?”

“Twilight is the title, not a character, that would be – no, you know what, I’m going back to bed,” Q says, because he cannot deal with comprehending this whole thing right now. He’s going to have to send out a different memo –

_Dear SIS personnel,_

_Kindly stop sitting on my sofa and playing video games with my flatmate, because it is making my life disturbing. I cannot handle it._

_No love,  
Your friendly neighborhood Quartermaster_

He makes it halfway down the hall before he turns around, heading for the kitchen.

“Tea,” Q says, holding up a finger, and someone laughs. He switches fingers, and holds his hand up over his shoulder. 

“Language,” Adam calls. Q settles for turning on the kettle and glaring at it. 

“Can I have a cup-“ Bond starts from the other room.

“NO,” Q says. 

Q ends up dropping down between the two on the sofa, tea clutched protectively in his hands. He settles into the sofa with a smirk when he notices that there are claw marks on Bond’s sides, which would explain why his fingers ache a bit. 

“Oh good, Halo,” Q says when he looks up at the TV. “Nice job losing, Bond. Put me in, Adam?” 

Adam puts in a third player, Q trades his mug for a controller from the coffee table, and then shoots Bond in the head. 

Bond looks over at him, eyes narrowed and one eyebrow raised. Q just smiles, that innocent evil one that Eve is so good at, and waits for Bond to respawn so that he can shoot him again.


End file.
